


Mourning Cry of Ecstasy

by LamentingQuill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, F/M, Not DH-compliant, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LamentingQuill/pseuds/LamentingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Severus touched her, when he brought out her passion, her desire and her longing, she remembered what it was they were fighting for. She remembered what it was like to feel joy, and it gave her strength.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning Cry of Ecstasy

**Mourning Cry of Ecstasy**

By

_Lamenting Quill_

* * *

 

 

“Why are you here?” Hermione asked, not bothering to open her eyes as she pulled the thin and ragged blanket covering her form tighter around her. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know who it was.

“You know why,” he said lowly.

She could tell from the direction of his voice that he was leaning against the doorframe, as he always did. She had to grit her teeth as she sank a little deeper into her worn and dingy mattress as she asked, “Who?”

His voice was barely audible as he replied, “Minerva.”

Hermione gave no indication of having heard him, but she had, and he knew it. Her heart twisted but no tears would come. She had no tears left to cry, for she had run out long ago. She groaned as he sat on the edge of her bed, causing her sore leg to throb at the slight motion. Letting her eyes flutter open for the first time since he entered her tent she looked up at him, meeting his dark and hollow eyes, feeling the chill that went through her at that look. How long would it be before he wouldn’t come to her anymore? How long would it be before she didn’t come back herself?

His hand came up to brush the hair from her eyes, his dirty fingers no doubt leaving smudges across her skin. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“You know what,” he said quietly, soothing the ever-present worry lines marring her young forehead.

“Severus-”

“Shh…” he said, laying his finger over her lips.

She lay there silently, continuing to hold his steady gaze, knowing on the inside he was anything but the calm he exuded. He needed her. And she always gave him what he needed, even though she knew if she lived through this war it would leave her feeling nothing but empty. She had given herself to him the first night he had appeared in her doorway, and every time thereafter she had given him even more. She knew she could have nothing of him in return, for he had nothing left to give.

She didn’t look away, nor did she attempt to cover herself as he lowered her blanket, the ragged cotton dragging lightly across her tender skin. It was always so hot in her tent that she slept nude, when she had the chance to sleep, and clothes agitated her unattended injuries anyhow.

She trembled as Severus’s long fingers traced the contours of the large scrape on her shoulder, turned almost black with dried blood. She had been too tired to make it to the Medi-Tent and had let it go untreated, along with several other injuries, in favour of some much needed but ill-begotten rest. There was neither rest nor peace in a time of war. Every time she closed her eyes she could see only the battlefield she had just left. Could only see her hands stained with blood, the agonised faces of those that their side had lost. She could hear the screams and the pain of the dying; could see the flashing lights of curses meant to kill, and of those meant to torture; could remember that she had added her own curses to the number, and her own hand had added to the roster of the dead.

Severus’s hand trailed familiarly across her breast, and she arched up into him, yearning to feel the pleasure he could bring her; the pleasure she needed to feel human again. She moaned as his lips found hers in a soft and needy kiss. She moved her hand to tangle in his matted hair, not wanting to think about what it might be matted with. She scooted painfully over in her bed to make room for him, her muscles protesting at the movement but she ignored them.

He pulled back from her, nipping on her bottom lip before releasing her, and then standing to quickly divest himself of his dirty, blood-stained robes. He was entirely too thin, but they all were. She couldn’t remember the last time they had eaten a decent meal or had a decent drink. He was covered as she was in scars, bruises, scrapes, scratches and dirt congealed with blood; some his, and probably some of someone else’s.

She had forgotten what it felt like to be clean. She had forgotten what it felt like away from this place, away from the death and the horrors of war. But when Severus touched her, when he brought out her passion, her desire and her longing, she remembered what it was they were fighting for. She remembered what it was like to feel joy and it gave her strength to put on her tainted robes, pick up her wand and go back out to face the enemy and watch her comrades fall. It gave her the strength to survive, even if Severus wouldn’t be a part of her future.

She moaned as Severus slid onto the small mattress beside her, knowing that he was hurting, for she was hurting too – and not just physically. She closed her eyes as his lips met hers once more, always gentle, always soothing. They experienced enough pain on the battlefield; it wasn’t what they needed here. She wrapped her arms around the man, holding him close, feeling the shudder that passed through him and swallowing the dry sob that escaped his drier throat. Minerva, gone… another one on the list of fallen. One of the few of whom Severus genuinely cared about for the older witch had genuinely cared for him.

This was how they dealt with the grief. The only way they could handle the pain. In one another’s arms, pouring out every ounce of their grief in every kiss, every touch, every moan. It was Severus’s only show of weakness; the only proof that even he had a breaking point, that even he was just a man fallen prey to the evils of war. Even he needed comforting, and Hermione was proud that she could give him that. Proud that it was _her_ he trusted with his pain. And she knew, somehow, that if she were the next to fall he would go to no one else, and that thought brought her nearly as much comfort as his touch.

His lips left her own to trail along her jaw bone before gliding across her neck. She slid her hands along his back carefully, mindful of his various injuries, her fingers catching occasionally on his partially-healed wounds. She cringed as he rolled gently on top of her, his leg nudging her aching one, causing him to pause.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked softly, his fingers dancing soothingly across her collarbone and over her shoulder, where she had a fresh pink scar from the day before yesterday.

“It’s my leg – the left one. Hex from Bellatrix,” she said, “but don’t worry; I gave her twice as much as I got.” She saw a slight twinkle enter his vacant eyes and it caused her heart to swell knowing that she put it there. She almost smiled as he gently moved her left leg to the side, propping it up against the wall of the tent and cushioning it with a pillow. It was these moments, his tenderness that she never would have thought him capable of before that first night he came to her, that made everything worth it: the fighting, the losses, the threat of dying. It was all worth it because of his touch, because of the knowledge that freedom meant happiness. Severus had shown her that, perhaps the least likely to do so, but he had, and she would forever be thankful.

Hermione knew that she had fallen in love with the man. She wasn’t supposed to do such a thing. What they did together was not making love, it was survival and bereavement; dealing with pent up emotions they couldn’t release any other way. It was desperation to remember the lives they left behind long ago, to remember what they could have again if they just kept on fighting. She couldn’t help it. She loved him, but she knew that he couldn’t love her. She couldn’t help wishing that he could. Couldn’t help wishing that if they both made it through the war, after everyone they had lost they would still have each other. But Severus had told her that first night not to hold any foolish expectations. Yet still, right now wishes and hopes were all she had, and while Voldemort and his Death Eaters could take her loved ones and take her own life, she’d be damned if she let him take those from her as well.

Closing her eyes, Hermione let herself bask in the sensation of Severus’s gentle touch, the feel of his lips against her neck, his hand sliding across her hip, playing along her inner thigh. Her breath hitched as his questing fingers found her centre, one long digit and then two slowly pressing inside her while his warm mouth closed over her nipple. She arched into him, a soft moan escaping her ever-parched throat as he pleasured her. It wasn’t long before her orgasm overtook her, and she came, his name whispered with a sigh from her lips.

“Open your eyes,” he murmured.

Doing as he said she looked up at him, her heart stilling as always when she saw the glistening of tears in his normally shuttered eyes. Tears only she was privileged to see; tears he would never let fall. But he didn’t have to let them fall. He let her see them and it was enough; for both of them. She softly cupped his cheek and he leant into her touch, placing a warm kiss on her palm before leaning down to cover her mouth with his own. She clutched his shoulders as he entered her, moaning at the feeling of their joining –passionate, needy, and desperate. Everything it should be, and yet everything it shouldn’t.

They moved together effortlessly, both lost in the other, both trying to forget the things they had seen, both grieving over those they had lost, both finding comfort in the feel of the other. It wasn’t much. It was enough. And as Severus brought them to the heights of culmination the distant sounds of battle were silenced by a mourning cry of ecstasy.

Hermione held him close as he collapsed on top of her, his face buried in the crook of her neck as he trembled. She wasn’t sure how much time passed – she was never sure these days – but she was content to hold him, whispering soothing words until the trembling stopped and he pulled away, leaving a gentle kiss on her shoulder. She watched him as he got up, retrieving his wand and removing the evidence of their joining before picking up his tainted robes and silently putting them back on. They never spoke after. Words weren’t needed. Hence, she was surprised when Severus stopped in the doorway of her tent, back facing her and not turning around.

“Hermione…” he said softly. “I don’t know what I have left of myself to give you – what I’ll ever have. But if I have anything left after this war, will you take it?”

Hermione felt her heart swell. She wanted to run over to him, to cling to him and tell him she loved him and that she would always take whatever he wanted to give her. But she wouldn’t. Saying unnecessary words to him would only complicate things; would only make it harder if something happened to either of them. Instead, she uttered a simple, “Yes.” after which she watched his fingers tighten into his fist, knowing that he wanted to turn and come back to her, to hold her and not let go. It was enough.

“Thank you,” he whispered, never looking back as he exited her tent to head once more to the battlefield.

After he was gone she stood as well, dressing quickly and grabbing her wand. Their mourning time was over, and she had new reason to fight.

 

 


End file.
